


i have seen the world but you are my home

by sekhmettt



Series: fate chose me and you [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Discussion of Abortion, F/M, Family, Fluff and Angst, Miscarriage, Rare Pairings, mentions of - Freeform, very brief - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:15:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26582005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sekhmettt/pseuds/sekhmettt
Summary: Elia has good news for her husband. Ned has bad news for his wife. They'll figure it out.
Relationships: Elia Martell/Ned Stark, Jon Snow & Aegon VI Targaryen & Rhaenys Targaryen (Daughter of Elia)
Series: fate chose me and you [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1917352
Comments: 62
Kudos: 277
Collections: Southern Renaissance (Dorne Renaissance)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably the most requested fic, and I can’t say I’m surprised. I was writing it before anyone even wanted it, because I wanted it too lmao. But alas, it isn't all sunshine and rainbows. Enjoy!

If Elia didn’t know better, she’d say she was pregnant.

She’s been pregnant twice before. She knows the signs. Yet, it isn’t possible. Multiple maesters attested to the fact that she cannot bear another child, that her health would not allow it. Whatever has come over her is some stomach bug, that makes her vomit in the mornings and detest the scent of fish, and is soon to fade away, nothing but a false signal for something more, something different. She is certain of it.

Regardless, she cannot stand Ned’s worried puppy dog eyes whenever she wakes him up voiding her stomach in the mornings, so she heads to the maester. Perhaps she has a new malady to add to her already long list of health conditions. Dark thoughts, but she is in a foul mood. She had plans today, and now she must spend her morning with a maester, one of her least favorite things, given how often it had to happened to her as a child and beyond.

At least Winterfell’s maester is a kind man, who doesn’t begrudge her any weak health and shows only concern. Despite that, her tone is short, irritated when she answers his question of her health, “I’ve been getting sick in the mornings, vomiting.”

“Is that all?” She doesn’t voice her nausea around cooked fish or the fact that her breasts were sensitive, for those were simply her mind playing tricks on her, so she shakes her head. Something must be obvious in her face though, because Luwin narrows his eyes at her and continues to question her until she admits her other symptoms.

He seems to hesitate, before handing her a glass, and she grimaces, knowing what this test is for, knowing he will do something complicated to change the color of her urine, knowing he is looking for the obvious answer when _it couldn’t be possible_.

It’s as she expects, and observing the glass, Luwin’s eyebrows do a complicated thing on his face, raising and lowering and raising again and she feels a prickle of nerves down her spine. She clears her throat, “Maester?”

“I…yes, my Lady. Apologies.” He puts down the concoction and offers her a surprised, if not nervous smile, “I suppose congratulations are in order.” She knows the words that are coming next, but she cannot hear them for there is a buzzing growing in her ears, as she stares at his mouth, watching him mouth _you’re pregnant_ as if that was _possible_.

“I’m barren.” She says automatically, dazed. 

“There are many factors that may have caused your…once barren state. Despite the cold, air quality in Winterfell is significantly better than the unhygienic capital or the ash and dust filled Dragonstone. It could be as simple as that. More likely it is a combination of things. The better general air quality of the North, in addition with the significantly less stressful position you find yourself in.” _That_ was an understatement. Lady of Winterfell, honorable and noble a position as it was, did not compare to the pressure of being a Princess of the Seven Kingdoms.

Plus, in Winterfell, she had no goodfather breathing down her neck, going madder by the day, nor courtiers whispering about her Dornish children or her fading health. In fact, the people of Winterfell seemed to love Rhaenys and Aegon and the only commentary she’d received on her health were genuine questions of its status. 

And then there was Ned. He was not Rhaegar, in the best of ways. She did not fear him getting lost in a daydream, going mad, or _ever_ stealing away with a barely flowered girl-woman for the sake of _prophesy_. He loved her dearly, and she loved him. A happy marriage, as shocking as it seemed.

“I’m pregnant.” She repeats, still stunned, but tone filled with a wonderous sort of happiness.

“Aye, my Lady.” Here, Luwin’s expression falls a bit, and he warns, “Though, perhaps it would be best, given it is still early into your conception and the fragile state of your health, and there being no concern for heirs-“ She knows where this conversation is going now and she interrupts him with a violent shake of her head.

“No. I have to at least _try_. I’m not drinking moontea or tansy or the like.” Elia’s voice is firm and Luwin nods his assent, though there is still a worried furrow in his brow. At the very least, it warms her to know that the maester is more concerned about her health than her husband getting another heir. Though in truth, she almost wishes Ned would worry more about the heir, for she fears he’ll have a similar reaction to Luwin, when she tells him. Concern for her health outweighing any of the happiness they should be sharing.

“Given your past difficulties, I want to keep a close monitor on your health throughout, and the health of the babe. We should schedule meetings at least once a week, perhaps even more frequent as the babe grows closer.” That seems overabundant to Elia, but she doesn’t object, not when he is coming from a place of genuine concern. They say their goodbyes, and Elia searches out her husband, eager to share the shocking, amazing news and assuage the worries she knows he’ll have.

Elia would very much like to give Ned a child that was a mix of the two of them. She knows that he is a father in all but blood to all three of the Targaryen children hiding in Winterfell, but she had always held, deep in her heart, that she’d love nothing more than to give him another child to love. He is a good father, so deeply loves Jon and Rhaenys and even Aegon, spitting image of Rhaeger he’s growing to be. She wants him to be able to coddle a little girl with his long face and her own dark curls, teach a little boy with her sandy skin and his lovely gray eyes how to wield a sword. She wants to give him children, a whole brood, and it had been an impossible dream until this very moment.

She isn’t without fear. Rhaenys’ birth was difficult and Aegon’s nearly killed her, and perhaps this babe would finish the job, but she couldn’t find it in her to care. _A child._ If it came to that, Ned would love the child and take care of all of them, even Rhaenys and Aegon. She hoped it didn’t, prayed the Seven hadn’t forsaken her here in the North, prayed that his Old Gods would protect her and her Stark babe.

Only time would tell.


	2. Chapter 2

To say that Ned is unhappy is an understatement. In truth, he’d like nothing more than to return to his bed with Elia and pretend as if this morning hadn’t happened, as if he hadn’t opened the raven with the Baratheon seal, as if there wasn’t _another_ war on the horizon.

Gods, it really has been six years since the last. It feels shorter. Aegon and Jon had been babes in arms, and now they walk and talk and were ever growing children. Rhaenys is mere years away from being a woman grown. How has time seemed to fly?

Ned is honorable. Ned is dutiful. He will do what he must. He will answer Robert’s summons and ride off to war again, will put down whatever rebellion the Greyjoys were attempting, and gods willing, return to Winterfell to continue watching his children grow, continue loving his wife, continue spending his days in the North, at home.

His wife. Another place of concern. She has gone to Luwin this morning. He’d always known her health was delicate, but after years in the North, she had seemed accustomed, seemed almost _healthy_. Sure, she has the occasional cough, as did most Southerners in the North, but nothing concerning. This latest situation is very concerning. Every morn for close to a fortnight now, she has voided her stomach. It had taken much convincing, and nearly begging before she had finally acquiesced to seeing him.

It has been hours since they broke their fast. Surely, she should be finished with the maester by now? Unless something has gone _horribly_ wrong.

As if summoned by his worry, his solar door opens and in walks his beaming wife. Shoulders relaxing a fraction, he sets aside Robert’s damned letter, shifting his focus entirely to her. “Elia, is everything alright?”

“Mmhmm.” Elia hums, walking round his desk and settling her self rather comfortably in his lap.

“Elia…?” he asks, laughter in his tone. She is normally not this tactile, normally waits for the night to show her affection, but he cannot say he’s complaining. Having a lapful of wife is a far more appealing prospect than continuing to go through his correspondence and reading about the newest war.

“Yes husband…?” she repeats in a near identical tone, an almost mischievous smile on her mouth. Ned cannot help but kiss her when she has that look on her face. She laughs as he pulls away, and he is nearly struck stupid by how gorgeous she is. He has seen her happy, but she seems almost radiant in her joy. Warmth radiates in his chest as she drags little butterfly kisses from his mouth, up his cheek, to his ear. Her voice is a whisper, full of excitement and happiness and perhaps a touch of worry, when she informs him, “I’m pregnant.”

The words roll through him like an electric shock. Of all the things he expected her to say, it was never that. He pulls back to see her face, to see if this is some strange trick, but she does nothing but grin and nod, and he lets out a breathless sort of laugh. “Pregnant…I thought…you…”

“I thought so too.” She laughs, voice sounding a bit wet and he can see tears in her eyes, “But oh, I’m so happy, Ned. Are you? Tell me your happy.”

“Of course I’m happy!” he exclaims, and cannot help but to kiss her again. “A baby…gods Elia, what a gift.” And yet, her health is fragile. Worry furrows his brow, and he doesn’t wish to dampen her good mood, but he must ask, “And it will be safe?”

Elia seems to have anticipated this, and she is quick to reassure him, “Luwin and I will be working closely to make sure everything goes smoothly. Nothing will go wrong Ned. I feel stronger here than I ever have.”

It is her health. She knows it better than he ever will. If she says that she will be okay, well…

Elia lets out a squeal of laughter as he stands, lifting her onto the desk and leaning over her to pepper her face with kisses. “My beautiful, miraculous, fantastic wife…” he murmurs to her and then she gets that mischievous, joyful little smile on her face again, and cants her hips up against his own, the motion sending heat down his spine, and he growls. Her laugh is a touch deeper this time, as she leans back on the desk, letting her hair splay out behind her head, pushing his papers out the way.

As she does, his eyes catch that Baratheon seal, and knowledge weighs heavy on his mind again. And _oh_ , perhaps he can afford to sit this war out. Surely, surely, the world would understand if honorable, dutiful Ned Stark forgot his honor and shirked his duty for one single war? There were bound to be others, whether he liked it or not.

He doesn’t intend to let this stop him from celebrating with his wife, from having her right her on the desk in his solar, and he leans down to kiss her, to pull his focus back to her mischievous smile and her clever hips and her beautiful visage. He thinks it works, for his mind is quickly filled with nothing but _Elia, Elia, Elia_ , but his wife seems to know his better, for she gives his hair a light tug.

“What’s wrong?” she murmurs against his throat, a languid kiss there, before continuing, “If you’re still worried about me…”

“No. Well, yes. I always will be.” Elia huffs out a breath of laughter against his skin and he shivers, “But there was…the King sent a raven.”

And oh, there fled all that sweet, mischievous, happy mood, for she tenses in his arms. Sighing, he leans back, settling in his chair once more, and she leans up, sitting on the desk and staring down at him in alarm. He wishes he could comfort her, assure her that it’s nothing more than his old friend wanting to catch up, but that isn’t the case.

“The Greyjoys are in rebellion. They burned Lannisport. Robert is asking for my aid.” Ned knows it isn’t true, knows he won’t be able to do it, but he wants her to agree with him, wants her to assure him that it was the right decision, that he was allowed to, so he quickly adds, “I’ll decline. I’ll stay in the North. He has more than enough forces to handle it. I won’t leave you.”

“If he sent you a raven, then he’ll be expecting you.” Elia points out, and all the happiness has fled her now, making her look simply worn, tired. He wonders if he looks the same. “He’s a King. He wasn’t asking. He was demanding.” And he thinks she is wrong, thinks that Robert was asking, knowing that it was all but guaranteed that dear old Ned would never let his foster brother down, but that’s practically the same thing. 

He feels desperate, so he offers, “Then I’ll send the Northern forces and I’ll stay. There are plenty of capable commanders in the North.”

That sparks her temper, and she snaps, “You will not abandon your people.” Yet the truth is, she is not angry. She simply knows that if she cannot convince him to go _quickly_ , then her resolve will weaken and she will cling to him, begging him not to leave her. “You will deal with the Greyjoys, and you will return to me and our child.” Her voice is firm, an order, and his face crumples into upset.

“Bugger the Greyjoys. The North doesn’t have a fleet anyway. Let the South handle it.” He mutters, tension near radiating off him, feeling rebellious. Elia reaches out, kneads his shoulders until they relax. Yet, her words are still stern.

“The North has a coastline. And Northern houses that can be attacked.” And her true thoughts include the reasoning that he cannot be seen shirking his duty to the crown. His relationship with Robert is all that had saved her and the children before, and if the hot-tempered usurper began to sour on her husband, then who knows how long that protection would last? “Would you ignore the call of your bannermen? Leave them to fend off the Greyjoys themselves?”

“You know I won’t.” he murmurs, heaving a sigh that seems to travel his whole body, “But Elia…your health…”

“Will be the same whether you’re here or battling the Greyjoys.” The only difference would be the worry. She’d fear for him, but she’d fear more if he stayed and gained Robert’s ire. He had to go. Her voice is soft, sweet, when she cradles his face in her hands, “And it doesn’t matter anyway. You will go. You will fight. And then you will return to me. Simple.”

“Simple.” Ned repeats with a sigh. “Aye. I suppose I must.” Honorable, dutiful Ned Stark. There was never going to be another outcome for him.

Elia nods, decisive, “Good. We will discuss it more later. As far as I’m aware, we were in the middle of something far more important than war anyway. Do not disappoint me, husband.” She warns.

And oh, that mischievous smile is on her face again, and she’s leaning back onto her elbows, looking expectantly at him, and Ned is _gone_ for her, up and out of his chair and back on top of her in seconds, swallowing her peals of laughter with his mouth.

It’s amazing, until they finish and have to pick up scattered papers and find melted wax strewn across the stone and well, his desk will never be the same again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will warn y’all. Elia is around 32 in this. Spoiler alert, she has, at most, maybe one more pregnancy in her, given her fragile health and her age, so don’t expect all the lil Starklings to exist in this universe. And if you’re curious: Ned’s around 27. Rhaenys - 9, Aegon - 7, Jon - 6.
> 
> Also, you'll notice this went from five chapters to four. Don't worry, you didn't lose anything. The last chapter is just big now lol.


	3. Chapter 3

Rhaenys clings to him, begging him not to go, and it breaks his heart. Aegon begs to come and fight, but he is too young to squire and falls into a sullen mood when Ned tells him as much. Perhaps a page, but Ned would not take him on as that either, wants the children far from war. Jon falls somewhere in the middle of his siblings, begging to come, then begging him to stay when Ned says no.

Ned is tired of war. It’s only been six short years since the end of the Rebellion, and now he has returned to the field. Robert grates on him. Robert adores war and seems to think them boys back in the Vale again, imagining themselves untouchable, unbeatable warriors. They haven’t broached the subject of the Targaryens in Winterfell, Robert seemingly pretending they don’t exist at all, but that has not stopped blunt, unthinking comments about Elia. He seems contrite almost, as if Ned is angry that he allowed the marriage. Ned isn’t oblivious. He knows many think him in an unfortunate situation: married to the barren wife of a disgraced, dead dragon. But many don’t know Elia, don’t know that she is a gift all her own, and even more don’t know of her pregnancy.

It is the thought that keeps him going. He had to get home and meet his new child. He sends ravens constantly, even though he knows that he won’t receive responses. The host moves too much and correspondence is impossible. He has no way of knowing what is happening back home and the thought terrified him. Was Elia okay? The baby? The kids? If something happened, he’d have no way of knowing until he arrived back in Winterfell, and who knows how long that could take. It was maddening.

Despite his best efforts, he would find himself softening to Robert, to the boy who was brother in all but blood. But then Robert would say something regarding Elia or reference dragonspawn, and Ned’s anger would return in full form. Many said that Brandon and Lyanna got all the wolf blood, but it wasn’t true. Ned knew that now. He just had better control than they ever had and can hold his tongue and keep his face placid and cold as winter, even as he’s seething.

Thankfully, it is not a long war, but a bloody one nonetheless. He and Robert siege Pyke together and they win together and Ned could almost forget how much Robert hates his family, if this feeling of victorious brotherhood lasted forever. _Almost_.

There are semantics. Logistics. Things that must be handled. Jon takes the Greyjoy boy to ward in the Eyrie. Ned offered, after seeing the poor, dejected looking boy, knowing that Elia would take him under her wing in an instant, but was firmly, but kindly rebutted. He has two wards of his own already, after all. And he shudders to think them in the same boat as the last Greyjoy son, hostage in all but name, for they’re _not_. But he wisely holds his tongue, even as the implication rests heavily over his conversation with his foster father.

And just like that, the war is over. It only took a few months, but he’s well aware of the travel time to Winterfell, and he fears he will miss the birth, fears he will lose a wife and not even know it, fears he will be left with three children to raise and a need to hold himself together at the same time. He doesn’t think he’s strong enough for that. He had never feared for his own life. If he died in the fighting, then Elia was strong enough to raise them all, to rule Winterfell until Jon was old enough. He cannot lose her.

It is that thought in mind, with the addition of Robert’s latest insult causing his teeth to grit and his fists to clench, that solidifies his choice to head straight home. He cannot delay, even if Robert would dearly wish to spend more time with him.

“Come _on_. Come to Lannisport Ned! It’ll be a grand ol’ tourney, a hell of a celebratory feast, _and_ we can find you a real woman! Give ya another bastard to be the spare, eh?” Robert jokes with a booming laugh.

“Elia is pregnant.” He speaks almost before he thinks it, but a vicious sort of pride unfurls through his chest at the flabbergasted look on Robert’s face, at the stunned blink of Jon, at the whispers that break out in the hall. “It will be a difficult birth. I must get home to my _wife_.” He gives an almost cursory bow, “Your Grace.” He does not ask to be excused.

He is settling on his horse the next morn, preparing to depart when Robert approaches. Exhaling heavily, he prays that he is not here to try and convince him to go West, to attend a frivolous tourney. He makes to get off his horse, to etch the proper bows and courtesies, but Robert stills him with a hand on the knee.

“You love her, don’t you?” Robert muses and Ned blinks down at him in a muted sort of surprise. “The dragon’s – the…” he struggles for a moment, before settling on, “The Martell?”

“She’s a Stark, now.” Ned murmurs, cautious and confused, for Robert had never shown such an interest without something vile spilling from his mouth, “ _Lady Stark_. And yes, I love her.”

“Gods above Ned…” he grumbles, looking as if the very thought pains him. “You’ve always had a bleeding heart, ya know that? Remember that lame mule, down by the Gates, you –“

“If you’re comparing my wife to a lame mule…” Ned interrupts, feeling a growl building in the back of his throat, and Robert holds his hands up in surrender.

“No! Gods, no. Sorry, I just…I didn’t expect it.” He seems earnest enough, so Ned lets his hackles lower, always too gentle on his friend, his brother. “After everything _he_ ,” There is enough venom on the word for Ned to know _Rhaegar_ , “…did, I didn’t expect you to fall in love with his wife.”

It’s astounding, that nearly six years have passed and Robert stilled loved Lyanna as deeply as he had the first time they met. Younger Ned had been amazed, and encouraged the relationship, but now, he sees that it would not have worked out. Robert doesn’t know Lyanna. He simply knows her beauty and her gentle side, her love of poetry and stories. He doesn’t know her strength and her wild side, her love of horses and swords. Ned doesn’t know if they would have ever worked, and still wonders if he hadn’t pushed them together, would Lyanna still be alive? Yet, he cannot focus on what ifs, or he’ll go madder than Aerys. He focuses on the conversation at hand instead.

“Elia had nothing to do with what he did. She was a victim too. How would you feel if your wife ran away with another man?” If Robert can begin to accept Elia, perhaps one day he might even begin to accept the children, as unlikely as it seemed.

Robert snorts and the tension that built between them snapped, “Bloody grateful. Poor bastard would probably bring her back within a fortnight though.” Ned frowns, and Robert rolls his eyes. “Calm down. You don’t know Cersei…but, I understand. I’m glad you’re happy, at least.”

It’s a surprisingly sweet sentiment, and genuine at that, Ned can see it in his eyes. “I wish you were happier.” Ned replies, frown still on his face, but Robert waves him away, startling Ned’s horse with the motion. Ned eases the beast, but it’s enough of a distraction that he doesn’t call Robert out on the obviously false smile on his face.

“I’m plenty happy! We just won a war! I wish my best friend would come celebrate with me, but alas, he has to go run back to his wife’s skirts.” Ned would be offended but this…this is more in line with the teasing he was used to from Robert, and it’s a relief to have it back. His lips twitch in amusement, even as he tries to keep stern and Robert’s eyes light up, grin overtaking his features, “Aye, but I guess it’s because you got under those skirts you have to run, yeah?”

“Robert.” Ned scolds, and the man gives him a boisterous laugh.

“Go. Keep the North safe for me. Have some pups. Get out of here.” Ned doesn’t need anymore prompting. With a final goodbye, he calls to his party and begins the journey back to Winterfell, thoughts returning to his wife and prayers heavy on his tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wham bam, ta da. Double chapter. I skimmed through the Greyjoy Rebellion, but nothing much really changed with it, outside of Theon, which is mentioned. Next chapter will be a bit, since it's two chapters combined. (I say that, but my muse for these two is hella high, so we'll see how long it actually is lol.)
> 
> Now hey, how about as a reward for my speedy uploads, if you have the money to spare, buy me a [ko-fi](https://ko-fi.com/sekhmettt), eh? XD If you do and have a fic request for this series or anything else, let me know and I’ll definitely give it my best shot. <3


	4. Chapter 4

Elia sends Ned off with a kiss and a hug that lingers too long, left standing in the courtyard with a group of sniffling, crying children clinging to her, forcing herself to act as stoic and strong as her husband, for if she doesn’t, she fears she’ll join the children in their anguish and she cannot afford to do that right now.

Murmuring an encouragement, she pushes the children to head inside, a slight smile on her lips as Rhaenys grabs both her brothers by the hand. 

“He’ll be back soon.” She promises, convincing herself as much as she is placating the children. Then, slyly, “He promised to be back to meet your next sibling.” She waits, and it is clever Rhaenys who realizes first, teary eyes lighting up and glancing down to her mother’s still flat stomach.

“A baby!” she exclaims when it becomes obvious that her brothers aren’t going to figure it out. “Mama is having a baby!” Aegon makes a wordless exclamation of joy, clapping happily. How easily their moods shift. 

“Da won’t be here to meet the baby when they come.” Jon murmurs and it drops the excitement of his siblings back down to melancholy. Elia sighs, shaking her head. Figures her gloomiest boy would focus on the negative.

“Come now my sun,” A boop on Rhaenys’ nose, “My moon,” A boop on Aegon’s nose, “My stars.” A boop on Jon’s nose, “Don’t fall into dismay. We don’t know that. He could arrive back in time.” Even if she finds it unlikely. Moons of travel and who knows how long spent actually fighting? Still, she endeavors to keep the smile on her face, for the sake of her children, “I just told you happy news! You’re going to be older siblings. Tell me, what shall we name the babe?” It’s a distraction, and it works marvelously, even little Jon not willing to forego the chance of choosing the baby’s name.

“Lewyn!” Her girl, all Dornish, shouts the name of a long gone uncle and Elia smiles, for it’s a nice thought. But she wants a Stark name for a boy, and says as much, prompting Jon’s “Brandon!” Another shake of her head, for she fears it too soon, even six years gone, to be naming babes after those her husband has lost. The wound still too fresh. Aegon tries, “Torrhen!” And there is some certain irony there, in naming the babe after the King Who Knelt. Elia makes a show of considering it, and he preens.

She offers a quick little grin, not letting him fall to arrogance and raising a brow to ask, “Oh, I’m having a boy, am I? You can all see it?”

Rhaenys catches on first, with a shout of “Nymeria!” The girl loved the story of Nymeria, it’s not a surprise she’d love a sibling named after the woman. But before she can even respond, Aegon offers “Loreza!” He doesn’t know its her mother’s name, but it warms her heart all the same and then Jon, perhaps heeding her call for Stark names, offers “Alysanne!” afterwards. Elia laughs, for they are all good names, and says as much, bringing joy to all three, even as they fall into a fit of arguments over which name is the best.

The arguments continue, popping up at the most random of times when Rhaenys will shout “Meria!” while breaking their fast or Jon will interrupt their playtime with a firm “Edrick.” or even Aegon at bedtime, mumbling a sleepy “Bael…” which only wakes them all up to debate the name and nearly causes Elia to pull her hair out trying to get them to sleep again. She herself doesn’t consider any names, not really. She wants Ned’s opinion, but she cannot ask him, and every time she thinks of him, off fighting a war, she wants to cry. So she simply _doesn’t_.

Despite everything, life continues on. Ned’s absence, however temporary, is like a gaping hole in her chest. Winterfell is not Winterfell without its lord, for all that Elia is told repeatedly that she does a marvelous job running the keep. Luwin’s praise and Cassel’s fatherly grin and the servants’ contentment don’t warm her bed at night, don’t run and play with the children, don’t hold her close and share hopes and dreams with her.

The time drags, and Elia receives letter after letter from her ever diligent husband, each one written in his hand and bringing a sharp relief that he’s still alive, out there somewhere in the big wide world. She knows there is no way to write him back, and she wishes that he could know that she’s okay too. Her pregnancy is going smoother than any before. It’s a real life miracle, and here she thought she didn’t believe in those anymore.

At least, that is, until the birth.

Ned has sent a letter, saying he is on his way home, only a moon away, and Elia is ecstatic. The babe is not set to be born for nearly a fortnight after that time, and he’ll make it home to her. She’ll have his quiet strength waiting to lean upon when her own war comes upon her. Or so she thought. A fortnight before his arrival, a full moon before Luwin anticipates the babe to be come, Elia wakes in the night to soaking wet sheets.

She screams, certain that it is blood, that she has bled away her babe, _their_ babe, her and Ned’s babe, that this pregnancy had been going too well. Her scream sends her handmaiden running in, alongside two guards, and the girl takes surprising charge, sending the guards to wake Luwin and pulling back the sheets and –

Oh. It’s just womb water, not blood.

The relief that courses through her is in direct contrast with the panic the knowledge sends shooting through her. _It’s too early_ – but it’s not all lost. She can still fight for her babe. She can still bring her babe safely into the world. She’s unbowed, unbent, unbroken. Winter may be coming, but she will weather the storm and come out of this on the other side, alive and with her babe in her arms. She swears it.

And she holds that resolve, for a time. But as the hours drag by and Luwin tells her _don’t push yet, not yet my lady_ , her strength wanes and she cries and she begs for Ned, who must have just crossed the Neck, miles away, and she cries for her mother, whose been gone for many years now. She cries and she cries, and after a time, she begs Luwin to be able to sleep, begs Old Nan to let her sleep, but they both refuse. Luwin with calm assurance that _soon, my lady, soon_ , and Old Nan with a wizened old hand tight in her own, growling at her with a surprising strength to _keep fighting girl, or all will be lost._

She is at her end. She’s sure of it. She cannot stay awake another moment, cannot stand this agony, when Luwin finally tells her to push and she does. She doesn’t know where the strength comes from, doesn’t know how, but after a flash of white hot pain, she hears the wail of a babe and now she’s crying for a whole new reason. She did it. Her baby is alive and well. She _did it_.

The pain doesn’t fade though. And the blood doesn’t stop. Elia doesn’t hear Luwin’s sharp, biting panic as he commands hot water and towels and who knows what else, doesn’t hear Old Nan falling into prayers, can only focus on the sharp, high pitched wailing of her babe. Her sweet little babe.

It is a nearly a fortnight before she wakes again. But, she wakes. Almost before she recognizes what has happened, she is gasping out, “My babe –“

A little girl is placed into her arms. Sandy skinned. Not as dark as she or Rhaenys, but certainly not as light as Ned or the boys. Already sporting thick curly hair, just like Elia, but in the strangest shade of reddish brown, nearly orange. She isn’t certain where that comes from. Tracing a gentle hand over one chubby cheek, she notes the sharp Dornish nose and bowed lips. She’ll take after her mother, that’s for sure. For a brief moment, she laments that she sees so little of Ned in the girl, until big gray eyes blink wake. Darker than Ned’s, but still so obviously Stark that Elia smiles.

She’s so tiny, smaller even than Aegon was, who was born a week early, but Luwin assures her perfectly healthy. Already a fighter, just like her mother. Elia couldn’t be prouder.

After feeding and cuddling the babe, her miracle girl, Elia cannot wait to see her first babes, and begs Luwin to let them in to see her. She is still bedridden and she knows he fears the overeager children hurting her, but he allows it. His fears are unfounded, because all three creep in the room as if they’re terrified of scaring an injured animal, until Elia opens her arms and her brave Rhaenys bursts forward to wrap her in a hug. The boys follow and all three are babbling about how scared they were and is she alright and is the baby alright and more and more until she can hardly keep up.

Some gentle shushing and gentler touches calms them all, and Elia gestures for the babe, taking the girl from Old Nan’s arms. Warning them to be careful, she allows the kids to meet their youngest sibling.

It shouldn’t surprise her that Rhaenys still advocates for a Dornish name, even if it’s a…unique one, exclaiming the Rhoynish word for _orange_ a near instant “Sansi!” at the sight of that odd red-brown hair. Aegon burst into laughter, and Jon’s brow furrows, taking a moment to remember the language, before he, too, couldn’t help a giggle. Rhaenys soldiers on, ignoring her brothers’ disbelief, “When we’re ladies, I can weave orange blossoms in her hair and dab orange perfume on her wrists and dress her up just like me!”

“I’m sure she’d love that.” Elia promises with a grin, feeling lighter and happier than she has in years, “But shouldn’t her father get a say in her name? He’ll be here soon after all.” And the reminder that Ned is but a few days away excites the kids even more, and Elia cannot even blame them, for it excites her as well.

She spends the next few days recovering, loving her babe, loving her children, eagerly awaiting her husband. By the time Luwin finally allows her to stand and then walk and then move freely once more, she is ready to shake out of her skin. Good think too, for just a day after Elia is free to leave her bed, Stark banners are spotted on the horizon.

Like a good wife and Lady of Winterfell, she gathers the household in the courtyard to await him. Rhaenys and Aegon on one side, Jon on the other, all shifting and squirming and so excited they can’t stand still. She should scold them, but she cannot, for it is taking all of her own power not to shift and squirm with her own excitement. The only damper on her mood is that it is too cold to take the tiniest of her children out of the keep. Ned will have to meet his new daughter later.

While Elia had cried for Ned during the birth, she cannot help but be relieved that he was not there. That he did not have to see her looking ‘paler than a wildling in winter’ as Old Nan had suggested. It was bad enough that the children had to experience the days without her. She would not wish the same for her husband.

And now. A daughter. She has given him a daughter, and she cannot be happier, yet still, a hint of worry creeps down her spine. What if he wanted a son, like so many men before him?

It’s an irrational fear, she knows. She has half a mind to believe Ned loves Rhaenys more than either of the boys. He would love another daughter just as dearly. Yet, some part of her is back in the Red Keep, hearing the courtiers whisper about how the birth of her _daughter_ had nearly killed her and the least she could have done was given her husband a son, watching Aerys’ face scrunch in disgust be it because of Rhaenys _Dornish smell_ or what was lacking between her babe’s thighs, she couldn’t ever say.

But she is not there. And the people of Winterfell consider it a miracle she has given them all another child to adore at all and think nothing of the fact that the child is a little girl. She knows Ned will think the same, and she straightens her spine, proud, and grins when the gates begin to open, so very, very happy.

There’s a decorum to this sort of thing. A proper way of doing things, and Elia intends to do just that, introducing the children and curtseying and greeting her husband as Lord Stark and only in the privacy of the keep hug him and kiss him and love him again. Yet, the instant he is down off his horse, restless Rhaenys darts from her side despite Elia’s reprimand, and as per usual, her brothers are quick to follow her lead, and at that point, the time for propriety has already come and gone and Elia can do nothing but join her family in the snow.

Given the way Ned ignores the hoots and hollers of his host and bannermen when he scoops her up into his arms and kisses her senseless, she rather thinks he doesn’t mind. Insistent tugging at his cloak gets him to release her and then he picks up Rhaenys and presses butterfly kisses wildly across her face as she screams out giggles, and then Aegon accepts a clap on the shoulder, for _he’s a man now, no kisses!_ and the boy squawks indignantly when it’s followed by a hand mussing his hair. Jon has less of his brother’s newfound pride and clings to his father in a tight hug. And Elia cannot help herself, voice nearly rushing out of her, eyes bright, “Your daughter is asleep in the keep, my lord. Safe and sound. Let me take you to her?”

Ned’s eyes are so warm that she nearly melts and he is so eager that he nearly trips over his own feet and why did she ever fear his rejection?

There are few proper forms to take, thanks to the bannermen who still have further North to go, housing them, but she leaves it to the servants, takes Ned by the hand, and their family happily heads to the nursery. The kids babble the whole way, and Ned appeases them with the appropriate noises of acknowledgement.

Led to the crib, his eyes light up the first time he takes in his daughter, and with Elia’s careful maneuvering, she helps him cradle the still too tiny girl. The children are still excitable, but they’ve turned their chatter to one another, so Elia just stares at Ned as he stares at their girl. His face is a wonder, completely open to her with its joy and disbelief and utter devotion. He already loves the girl and she nearly preens when he glances up to her.

“Have you named her?” This pulls the attention of the kids, who all start shouting their suggestions again as Ned blinks in surprise, unaware of the storm he just unleashed. Elia laughs, shushing them before they can wake the sleeping babe.

“No, though Rhaenys suggested Sansi and they’ve all taken to calling her that. _Orange_ in Rhoynish, for her hair.” A cute nickname, but hardly a fitting name. Elia still has no idea where that hair of hers came from, though Ned rumbles out a laugh though and seems to recognize it.

“Aye, she has the Flint hair, my grandmother’s blood. These locks will be as red as a weirwood leaf when she’s grown, I swear it.” His eyes are glittering, and Elia thinks he may cry, though she dearly hopes he doesn’t, for if he does, she will cry too. “She looks like you.” It was true. Looking at the little girl, her features were like staring in a mirror, a wide mouth and sharp nose looking almost out of place on a baby’s face. She’d grow into it though, just as Elia had.

“She has gray eyes, dark gray.” Elia shared eagerly, for the girl was still contentedly napping, eyes sealed tight.

“She’s beautiful.” Ned states, utterly sincere and Elia grins.

“What shall we name her then?” Elia asks, completely aware of the storm she unleashed as the children once again start their arguing, quickly shushing them once more.

“Sansi?” Ned asks with a grin as Rhaenys crows in victory.

“No, we cannot.” Elia laughs, “Give her a Northern name.”

Ned takes a moment to think about it, before offering, “There was a Sansa Stark before. Perhaps there should be one again?” It would still give good cause to use Sansi as a nickname, and Rhaenys still seems to hold it as a victory, already bragging to Jon and Aegon that she was a better sister namer than they, much to the chagrin of the boys.

“You answered the call of the question, but not the spirit. Sansa – Sansi. Look, you’ve given Rhaenys arrogance.” Elia teases, tilting her gaze down to the little girl in his arms, acknowledging, “It’s a good name.”

And so, Sansa Stark joins their family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A LOT of you wanted this to be Arya. And all I can say is be patient. :) 
> 
> Note that while at her core this is Sansa, she has a few very slight personality changes because Elia vs. Cat changes and she’s a few years younger than she is in canon. I couldn’t part with her red hair, so I made it a Flint thing lmao. 
> 
> Also, Sansi as the Rhoynish word for oranges comes from Silberas’ fantastic ‘For Fear Tonight is All’ if you love Stark/Martell relationships, check it out. (It’s Oberyn/Sansa/Ellaria.)
> 
> I have an almost completed one shot that hops way forward in time, to nearly the beginning of Game of Thrones, and I’ll leave it up to you guys. Do you want me to post that as soon as it’s finished and just post the other six or so currently planned oneshots that happen prior to that one after the fact prequel-style or do you want me to keep posting the one shots in chronological order, even though it will take six+ oneshots to get to the nearly finished one? If it makes any difference, it’s very Aegon-centered with him as a POV for some sibling time, plus a surprise Benjen visit (and Benjen POV, briefly.)


End file.
